#immram

[finnlongman]

Lads, I have endured an absolute immram today. A two hour drive to Oxford turned into over six hours and involved 75 mins on a motorway verge in the pouring rain, a tow truck, a taxi, and two unplanned trains. With a wheelchair. True to voyage tale tradition, we lost a member of the party in Northampton, but three of us eventually arrived at our destination.

I've never been more grateful that my wheelchair a) folds and b) has quick release wheels, enabling it to be squished into very small spaces when necessary. Also incredibly grateful to have had it with me at all, because 75 mins on a motorway verge in a chair wasn't great, but it would have been much much worse if I'd had to stand.

I'm meant to be giving a paper at the Ox-Cam Celtic Colloquium tomorrow. Fingers crossed the chair means that although I'll probably be fatigued, I won't be in any more pain than usual. Hell of a baptism by fire for my first time taking a wheelchair on a train, though.

And apologies to the Oxford bookshops I did NOT manage to visit today. Perhaps I can escape during the lunchbreak of the colloquium...

[greencheekconure27]

Re-reading the Voyage of Maél Dúin and am once again reminded how little it would take to make this story into a great scifi series.

You already have the story divided neatly into episodes too: "pilot","the one with the ancient alien artefact (silver column)" "this place is making the landing party act bizarrely we must rescue them""risking life and limb to obtain [resource ]", "the one where the Iocals were freaking out because they thought we were the newcomers prophesized to banish them their lands" "the one with all the supernaturally beautiful immortal women trying to keep us here" "we ate unknown fruit and got intoxicated " all sound like perfectly valid Star Trek episodes

(of course a straight adaptation would make for a great show too)

[caraecethrae]

I need to buckle down and figure out what my personal understanding of Ceirt/Cert is.

it's fascinating how it seems to have these two diametrically opposing possible meanings (not unlike nGétal), one being tied to coir and right judgment and kingship, which actually fits apple extremely well folklorically, and one connected to madness, misfortune, sacrifice, and illness, which fit both potential etymologies of either Rag or Bush.

it seemed clear to me in the past that the secondary meaning had to be original, especially given my/the bias against the crannogham, but it's still very frustratingly simple that the current Modern Irish meaning is Rightness.

perhaps the meaning of the word shifted to match the evolving understanding of the fid, given the medieval love for the arboreal and more recentness of the Immrama? of course that's a reach but ...

[astronicht]

Holy shit, holy shit, I just got into Lothlorian properly and NOBODY TOLD ME that it’s like. Not “timeless” it’s literally outside time it’s an Otherworld like all those islands in Irish stories where if you try to go back to the real world you age and crumble to ash, like Immram Bran or whatever — only not, presumably, that last part. They do specify that it’s outside time tho in a kinda literal sense. But it’s also got a GROVE but it’s also got a tall hill in opposition to an evil tower, Norse witchcraft style, but it’s ALSO got a BIG TREE at the foot of which THREE PEOPLE SIT next to a WELL and then a woman tells past present and FUTURE like oh my fucking god it’s Yggdrasil. It’s an Otherworld. It’s the combination Otherworld-Yggdrasil. Reading this is like eating the best and most interesting cheese platter of your life. And then Sam Gamgee is upset.

[maddyaddy]

The Law Dog, Last Marshal of Immram.

"I killed four of you pig Marshals already. What's five? There's no such thing as going to the Emperor. There's no such thing as good or evil. It's all gak, from top to bottom, forward to back. Do your worst, Law Dog. I'm getting away clean either way."

"You are wrong, 'Killer' Rolfe. There is justice. There is a hereafter. You will face both, now. The sun rises, as we agreed to. Draw irons."

[Bede: at this point, the audio-record attached to our decidedly low quality vid-capture gives way to an estimated two reports, the first an autopistol. It is drowned out by that of a Stub Cannon. By my estimations, it is particularly high-caliber.]

"Urk. You - I recognize you - you were there! Damn you, you Marshals are hard to kill. Especially the ones like…"

[The Law Dog stands over Rolfe's bleeding form. He lifts Rolfe up to eye-level, grabbing him by his tattered red robes. I can feel the sheer intensity of the stare of the Law Dog, somehow. The audio-record cuts out here, as well. Acolyte Recommendation to Lady Vreiken: Conduct further investigation with proxy-Servitors.]

"— That's right, Rolfe. But you didn't shoot to kill, didn't aim straight. The man you shot at Four Massacres Gulch, he died that day- but The Law Dog lives!"

[Rolfe, struggling to summon his last ounce of preternatural strength, points to the Law Dog.]

"Heh. Guess you got your man after all, Law Dog. Take what joy you can in it, Marshal. Khorne cares not from whence it flows."

[The Law Dog roughly drops Rolfe to die in the dirt of Sundown Hive, in self-evident disgust. He turns towards the wall-mounted camera.]

"I take no joy in justice."

[ltwilliammowett]

The Irish Currach

The currach is a traditional Irish boat built from a light wooden frame covered with tarred leather or canvas. They were usually 4.80 to 5.50 m long and slightly less than 1 m wide. Depending on the purpose for which they were built and where they were built, they could be seaworthy with a keel and sail or flat as a river or coastal vessel. It is not known exactly when they first appeared on the coasts of Ireland, but they seem to have been around since the Neolithic period.

A modern Kerry currach 

Used for fishing or transport, they could also be used for other purposes. Pytheas of Massalia is said to have used one around 340 BC during his exploration of north-western Europe. Whether he actually did so is questionable, since his account of the voyage has been lost and other ancient authors like to portray him as a liar and label his observations as fictitious. Today's researchers, however, believe him to a large extent.

Pytheas on his voyage to Thule in 340 BC, by Stephen Biesty 2011

In chapter 4 of the Navigatio Sancti Brendani, the author describes how St Brendan and his monks built a curragh for the planned sea voyage in 565 and 573 AD across the open sea to the "Isle of the Blessed". The material is described in detail: resin-soaked ox hides tanned in oak tan for the covering, ash wood for the frames and oak wood for gunwale, oars, oars and mast, all made waterproof with (sheep) fat. Then a hull was constructed from longitudinal and transverse frames joined with leather strips, the skins pulled over them and sewn together with flax fibre threads. Oars, mast, leather straps (for the shrouds and sheets), leather sails, as well as spare skins, woods and grease completed the equipment.

Book illustration Manuscriptum translationis germanicae Cod. Pal. Germ. 60, fol. 179v (University Library  of Heidelberg, Germany), written around 1460 AD. St. Brendan in a currach.

A similarly constructed boat is described in the mythical tales Immram Curaig Maíle Dúin ("The Voyage of the Boat of Máel Dúin") from the 10th century and Immram Brain ("Bran's Voyage") from the 8th century. The currach survives to this day and caused quite a stir in the 17th century when an attempt was made to recreate a seagoing one. Captain Thomas Phillips, described and drew it as follows: "A portable vessel made of wicker, commonly used by the wild Irish". The ocean-going vessel is about 6m long, has a keel and rudder, a ribbed hull and a mast in the middle of the vessel. Because of the keel, the ship is built from the bottom up. A fairing (probably made of animal skins) was added, with the sides supported by poles in the gaps.

The mast is supported by stays and double shrouds on each side, the latter sloping down to an outer plank which serves as a chain stay. The forestay runs over a small fork above the yard, which carries a square sail: a branch is tied to the top of the mast. The stern is topped by double half-rings which could support a cover.

Captain Thomas Phillips - Currach, 17th century

Phillips' sketches suggest that such a vessel was by all means common in his time and probably in use earlier. The keel would improve the handling of the boat, but the hull would remain flexible.

A modern Donegal Sea Currach

Today's currachs are sturdy, light and versatile vessels. Their framework consists of a truss formed by frames and stringers and surmounted by a gunwale. There is a stem and stern post, but no keel. For this it is rowed but can also have a mast and sail, but with a minimum of rigging. The outside of the hull is covered with tarred canvas or calico, a substitute for animal skin. They are used for, recreation, fishing, ferries and for transporting goods and livestock, including sheep and cattle.  

[beautiful-story]

🎶🎹🪈🪘🍂🍁

[whatthecrowtold]

#unhallowedarts - Brendan's Uncanny Journey into the Unknown

‘O! tell me, father, for I loved you well, if still you have words for me, of things strange in the remembering in the long and lonely sea, of islands by deep spells beguiled where dwell the Elven-kind: in seven long years the road to Heaven or the Living Land did you find?’ (J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Death of St. Brendan”)

Kathleen Neely for A. B. Jackson's "The Voyage of St. Brendan" (2021)

It might be a bad case of “the grass is always greener on the other side” or just curiosity and a yearning to know what might be beyond the horizon of the broad Atlantic that washed upon their beaches, but it is the Gaels and the Britons, of all the Celtic people, the Insular Celts, who have the strongest tradition of tales about mythical islands and lost underwater kingdoms. Lyonesse west of the Scilly Islands in the Arthurian tradition, Ys off Brittany, the “Welsh Atlantis” of Cantre’r Gwaelod and the Irish legends of Tír Tairngire and Tír na nÓgm, whole Otherworlds and Happy Hunting Grounds out in the ocean and, of course, Hy-Brasil, an island cloaked in mist except for one day every seven years, that became the namesake of Brazil centuries later, to name but a few. A typical hero quest of Insular Celtic tradition was the voyage, by ship or magic horse, out there where adventure was awaiting and to return a better man or not at all. The motif of reaching the Great Beyond by ship was taken up by Irish monks in the early Middle Ages and transformed into Saints’ voyages to some Paradise or the other located west of Ireland, a type of tale called simply “immram”, voyage, and the most popular of the immrama is certainly that of St Brendan.

Whether or not the Blessed Brendan had founded Clonfert Cathedral in Galway in 563, usually named as the only historically secured feat of his vita, his tale, written down probably as late as the 10th century, became a long running hit in medieval literature with an impact history that lasted well into the Age of Exploration. The author or authors of Brendan’s travel story did, admittedly, their best to spin a whale of a tale that does not have to shun comparison with Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner”. With elements of old legends, hell visions, probable early discoveries like the volcanoes of Iceland or places like the Faroe Islands, Greenland or Newfoundland, before Eric the Red and Leif Erikson followed the whale road across the Western Ocean around 1000 CE, the monks certainly held their audience in a thrall over the centuries. The most memorable event of Brendan’s maritime quest for the Garden of Eden certainly was the celebration of Easter Mass on an island that turned out to be the sleeping Jasconius, a giant, whale-like creature, awoken by the saint and his fellows when they lit a fire on the poor thing’s back. Nonetheless, St Brendan returned to tell the tale, became the patron saint of whales, founded various monasteries, finally died as an old man, allegedly, in 577 and was buried in Clonfert.

Brendan’s Island appeared on maps as late as the early 18th century, Henry the Navigator and Columbus believed in its existence, even though they placed it in west of Africa and not in the North Atlantic. Of course, Brendan joined the queue of pre-Columbian discoverers of America like the Welsh Prince Madoc or even pre-Viking explorers like Bran. In 1976, the British explorer, historian and author Tim Severin took the legends literally, build a currach, a type of Irish boat with a wooden frame over which ox hides are stretched as it was described in the old texts and used at least until the 17th century and set forth with a crew of three on an epic 4,500 mile voyage from the west of Ireland along the Hebrides and Iceland to Newfoundland, trying to prove that a voyage like St Brendan’s was at least possible in the early Middle Ages. The saint, in the meanwhile, is venerated as patron of sailors along with St Nick and various local heroes and, as of late, as the holy helper in cases where portable canoes are involved

All images above were created by Kathleen Neely A. B. Jackson's "The Voyage of St. Brendan" (2021) and found on the website below.

[makarovspussy-moving]

Do you have a hyper-specific genre? Would you enjoy reading stories in this genre, or do you just like writing them?

narrows eyes. hmmm. I don't know if this is a genre, moreso a trope hyperspecific to fandom, but I really love alternate universes in which the characters are in situations radically different from canon. So basically all of the major fic projects I'm working on and have planned (Apoptosis, Venator, and some other assorted AUs for COD, Immram and Lorelei for Dishonored, and obviously Call of Honor is its own fucking megabeast)

I like reading them a lot, but I'm very very picky and common fandom tropes just don't do it for me these days. like, coffee shop AU is cute and all, but what if I want a Dishonored Gristolian Iron Age selkie Void odyssey AU where Havelock is a fucking Viking??? I'm the only mfer out here writing shit like that

[melodysoars]

my eyes and nose are bleeding from the inhumidity. delirious . i could go on an immram at any moment. the shoreless mountain.

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 83

Conclusion of the Crossing Roads

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

“About time you showed up, princess!”

Veery jumps down a tall brick wall to the path below, winding down towards the dock. Fighting uphill to meet them are familiar, friendly faces, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Show some respect, pirate!” General Kaia shouts over the clashing of steel, but even she is smiling at the sight of their princess (mostly) unharmed, with a magical sword, swooping in to cut through the Empire.

Daithi laughs. “Really? You scold me even now? Maybe I should take my ship and crew back to Dagda if you’re going to be like this.”

“That’s your princess, you-”

“It is good to be seeing you again!” Kieran shouts, waving from another tier down the path. He points off to the enormous gatehouse further down the curve of the dock. “There is where we must be taking! They are blocking the harbor!”

From the gatehouse to the identical one across from it, a massive chain hangs. A few ships are well inside, already assaulting the harbor, but many more, the bulk of the navy, remains blockaded outside that gate.

“They raised it on us the moment it was clear we were attacking!” General Kaia shouts. “Luckily, Daithi was fast enough to slip inside before they got it up, but most of our forces are sitting ducks out there!”

“My crew is already clearing a path towards the far gate,” Daithi says, pointing towards the further gatehouse. One of just a few Brigidan ships in the harbor is sailing close to the shore, blasting the soldiers stranded on land with arrows, magic, and explosions from massive weapons something like ballistae sticking out of the side of the ship. “You guys take the closer one, and we’ll crack this egg wide open.”

Veery flinches at the explosions from the ship’s weaponry, and the ensuing blasts tearing up the very foundation of the city.

Daithi grins, close enough now to lean in close to Veery’s ear. “Never seen a cannon before? Don’t blame you. Picked them up on west coast of Dagda, if you can believe it. Hard to sail all the way over there, but they are very creative when it comes to blowing things up. And secretive; remind me to tell you the story of how I convinced them to share those cannons with me when they won’t even let the east Dagdans know how they work.”

Oh, Veery is definitely going to remember to ask after that story.

“Hey, pirate!” General Kaia yells. “Get your ass over here! That gate isn’t going to take itself down!”

Daithi pats Veery’s back and winks. “Once we’re done here, let’s get a drink to celebrate. I promise I’ll only bug you to join my crew a little bit; I still haven’t given up on recruiting you, you know!”

With that, he runs off, joining General Kaia to pick through the flaming remnants that his ship leaves behind.

Veery turns his eyes in the opposite direction, towards the closer gatehouse. It stands so tall, so proud, a yellowed but strong monument to the city’s defense. Veery will enjoy bringing it down.

“Let’s go,” Petra says. “It’s not far.”

(His only regret is that structural damage would be pointless. As much as he wants to tear the whole thing apart, they aren’t actually trying to raze Enbarr to the ground. They just need to get in and take control.)

Kieran ends up following them, adding to their small crowd as they work their way to the gatehouse. Veery is down an adjutant, leaving Sadi at the opera house to recover, but he’s still got Hoarvug. Petra has Acis and Vanora as well as her usual battalion and Dorothea has her own battalion at her back. With Kieran and his crew, there are enough of them that an assault in close quarters like within the gatehouse shouldn’t be an issue.

And it isn’t. It’s almost like raiding the tower on Immram again, back where they found Ambrose. The gatehouse is quite a bit wider, so Veery sees more action despite still not being at the front of the pack, but the essentials are the same. Those in front don’t leave enough alive for those in the back to have to do too much. They form a line and push through, slaughtering any opposition they encounter on the way.

Like on Immram, Veery takes to investigating the side rooms. He cleans up the straggling soldiers there, so they can’t attack from behind. But in those rooms he finds more than just soldiers. Humans in rags. Worn, working clothes. More than a few try futilely to pick up arms. A fallen sword or something more improvised doesn’t matter. Their eyes blaze with fury, hatred, loyalty, patriotism, and they pick up arms.

If they do not heed Veery’s warning growl, he kills them.

Still, more cower, and their cowardice saves their lives. They are not soldiers, but maintenance workers, dock workers, cooks, the people who do the labor the soldiers do not. It is not their war. They do not choose this.

Veery passes them by without a second glance to watch how they tremble before him.

They take the gatehouse. It takes a few of them working together, but they lower the chain blocking the harbor. The walk back down is slow, peaceful, a lull in the storm.

“You…” Kieran starts hesitantly, drifting close to Veery’s side. “You are winter, now.”

A prideful burst like gleaming light carries like laughter from Hoarvug’s heart. “Of course, he is,” it seems to say. “He always has been.”

Kieran sighs, huffs, shaking his head. “I… what I am trying to be saying… War makes ice of our hearts. Your eyes… they were not so cold before.”

Weren’t they? It’s not as if Veery ever cared for the humans he’s slain. Regret that people had to die, sure. Try to avoid killing, absolutely. But care for the ones who must be killed? No. Veery is not that kind of cat.

Veery looks deep into Kieran’s wide, distant eyes and frowns. He might say the same thing of Kieran. He might say the same thing of all of them. Eyes made of winter look back at him, stare out over the ocean, survey the death and chaos of war.

“I have hope,” Kieran says, “that once this war is over, we will finally be able to be thawing.”

Veery closes his eyes for just a moment. There is no judgement, like it sounds at the start. Kieran does mean everyone. War makes them all cold. Cold to the death, to the violence, to the fire and the red.

Death is not a reaper. Death is the earth and snow. It is cold and numbing. It steals everything right down to feeling itself.

Even, it seems, if it is not their own deaths. It still steals away all warmth.

Veery bumps Kieran’s leg, nosing affectionately into his side for a moment. Maybe. Veery doesn’t have much hope for himself, with the Degradation and all, but maybe. Maybe, when it’s all over, winter will finally recede, and spring will come. Fódlan’s new dawn, right? That’s the phrase Claude likes to use.

If only for his family’s sake, Veery hopes that, too.

---

The visiting Brigidans stay behind to push in from the harbor while Veery follows Petra to the Imperial Palace’s rear courtyard. They climb over a pile of rubble at the base of a large hole in the wall, courtesy of Daithi’s cannons, and enter the immaculate gardens. Soldiers are already ready for them, of course, but they cut through.

Once they clear the courtyard, they take a breath. “There are more enemies inside the palace than we thought,” Petra says. “Be prepared; Edelgard is well defended. But this battle is a deciding one. I believe, when we get to the end, it is her wish to face us.”

Dorothea sighs gently. “Ferdie, Bernie, Caspar… now Hanneman too. If Teach and the others have made it into the palace yet, I’m sure Hubie’s gone. Even Dimitri, Ingrid, Caub… We’ll end it. For everyone.”

Hoarvug hums, amused, caring not for the feelings the humans bring with them into this fight. For him, it is the glory of conquest. The test of his strength, to walk through Chaos and come out the other side.

Veery himself… is just tired. They’ll kill Edelgard today, and then tomorrow… who knows? Everyone has their grand plans, but Veery? He’s going to nap. He’s going to stretch out in the sun and rest, and he will warm himself with the promise that this war is over.

Even if tomorrow brings a new war entirely, at least they will still be moving forward. On to something anew.

Edelgard was his friend. Veery accepts that, he remembers that, and he lets it go. He will not hesitate for even a single moment.

And so, today, he fights.

“Onward,” Petra says grimly. “To the end.”

Veery rubs against Dorothea, winds ahead to do the same with Petra, and purrs.

“Thank you, Veery,” Petra says with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I made my choice. I will not falter now.”

“We’ll make it through,” Dorothea says, gripping tight to Veery’s fur for just a moment. “We have to be strong for Teach, too, you know?”

Right. Onward, then, to the end.

They break into the palace. Falling glass frames them as they charge through. Veery shreds into a knight’s armor, tearing open the soft flesh beneath. Petra aims for the weak points, the joints in her enemies’ armor, and even when they manage to move enough that she does not cripple or kill, ice springs from her blade to lock up those joints, and they do not avoid a second strike. Dorothea dances with fire and lightning, and the palace reeks of burning flesh.

In a massive kitchen, Hoarvug knocks down an overhead chandelier of pans, reveling in the chaos it brings when the soldiers there scramble. Veery throws a soldier into the burnt stew and the fire still cooking it.

In a servant’s bedroom, a crowd of people huddle. They survive, but Veery freezes the door behind him as they leave. The ice will thaw eventually, after the battle is won.

In a hallway, Petra’s ice blade freezes three men to the wall, and she is kind enough to simply knock them out with quick strikes to the head.

In a greeting room, Dorothea spins away from an axe, and Veery tackles the warrior into an expensive vase, shattering it over his enemy’s head. Dorothea skewers the swordsman behind him with her levin sword a moment later.

On a stairway, Hoarvug tosses a mage over the railing, almost right on top of Acis, who unflinchingly puts them down. Vanora glares up but just gets her own heap of a mage to kill when Veery throws another down to them.

When they breach the top of the stairs, they run into familiar faces. “Petra! Veery!” Claude grins. Teach stands behind him, ready but smiling at the sight of them. “I take it you took care of the reinforcements?”

“We’re a bit behind, it seems,” Dorothea answers. “But we’ve cleared the path behind us – no enemies are coming up through here.”

“Excellent work, you guys. Just about now, Lysithea should be sealing off-” The palace shakes, and Veery hears shattering glass accompanying a bone-deep explosion some distance away. “-the other passage,” Claude says. “That’s that, then. The enemy won’t be able to send any more reinforcements now. Come on, Edelgard is in the throne room.”

“The throne room is just down this hall,” Petra says. “Let us hurry.”

They barrel through the hall towards the grand doors leading to the throne room. From the opposite end, more of their allies approach. “You all made it!” Lysithea says when they get close. “Good. Just one last fight.”

“Open the doors already,” Felix growls. “We’ll end this once and for all.”

“Ugh, of course, of all the people to make it here, I’m part of this group,” Linhardt sighs. “I hope Caspar appreciates all I’m doing for him.”

Hilda reports directly to Claude and Teach. “Almost everyone else, including Judith and my brother, are still outside. We’ve cut off reinforcements within the palace, but Edelgard still has pockets of troops around the city that are closing in hoping to corner us. Leonie and Judith are trying to stamp them out, while Lorenz, Ignatz, and Raphael protect the common folk. Marianne is with Holst taking on the last of the demonic beasts. We shouldn’t see any coming in here, in any case.”

“Sylvain and the rest of the Lions are with my father and the Knights of Seiros,” Felix says. “They’re in control of most of the city now. Only the Palace District is left, but she’s got that handled.” He nods towards Hilda. “Now let’s get going. Edelgard isn’t going to sit idle while we give reports.”

“Right you are,” Claude says. “No time to waste. Once we take care of Edelgard, we’ll finally be free of this war. Are you all ready?”

Everyone gives their assent, as eager to get this done as much as they dread having to kill someone they know. Only Professor Byleth hesitates. “…I don’t want to kill Edelgard,” she says.

The air is tense following her confession, but Claude reaches out to her, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. She lifts her eyes to his. “I know,” he says gently. “She’s a fellow student to all of us. But she refused the path we could have walked together. Even cornered and with her allies defeated, she won’t yield. I don’t want to kill her, either, but if showing pity will put my allies in danger, I will not hesitate. Are you prepared to do the same?”

Byleth turns her eyes down, then, when they turn wintry once more, she lifts them back to Claude’s. She nods. “I won’t let her hurt any more of my students.”

Claude nods back, they each take position at one of the double doors, and together they push through.

There, alone, Edelgard stands afore her throne. She looks down upon them with disdain across her countenance. Veery’s gut broils as he takes in the scene.

“I must confess I never imagined that you would be able to pursue me this far,” Edelgard says when they all enter. “I don’t mean to belittle your skills, professor, Claude, but you’ve far surpassed my expectations. But having made it this far, I suppose you think you can defeat me. Is that right? But no matter how strong you are, I will never give up. Even if my arms and legs fail me, I would still find a way to move forward. My progress cannot be stopped! I will trample the past underfoot and move on to a brighter tomorrow!”

“What do you mean to accomplish with this, Edelgard?” Claude asks, trying in vain for the last time to talk to her. “We’ve already taken down Shambhala. Your Agarthan allies are no more! Why are you still insisting on this path of war?”

Edelgard actually has the gall to laugh. “Claude… your ideals, they are not so far removed from my own. But even with all your cleverness, you don’t have a shred of self-awareness, do you? This war was never about Agartha. It is about the false goddess and her minion who ruled over Fódlan for far too long. And now here you are, just another of the goddess’ vanguard.”

“I’m no vanguard of the goddess,” Claude says. “If anything, I’ve got my own god to follow.”

Edelgard snorts. “Veery, do you mean?” Her eyes fall on him. “The patchwork god. The winter sun. You… you were a surprise, I admit. But I cannot allow a new god, whoever he may be, to simply take the goddess’ place. I do not blame you, Veery. I know you have no desire to rule. I even still believe that you would be a good ruler. Yet if I permit you to live, Fódlan will never let go of her old habits. When gods interfere in the affairs of mortals, corruption follows. I can never achieve peace so long as you remain. I am sorry, truly, but the option to let you live is long past.”

And Veery will do whatever it takes to survive. And so, they must fight. The worst part, the part that sinks into Veery’s heart and stings, and pisses him off, is that Edelgard is completely sincere.

“And even if I could let you go, even if you were still mortal… I cannot leave Fódlan to you for the same reason I cannot leave her to Claude. Without sufficient knowledge of this land’s suffering, you cannot possibly heal it.”

Lysithea narrows her eyes. “You call us just more of the goddess’ vanguard, but what does that make you? Saying all that about Veery… You’re just the Koterija’s weapon, aren’t you? Not a shred of self-awareness yourself.”

“It is not so easy to understand others,” Claude says in the heated silence of Lysithea’s accusation. “People are more complicated than that. You understand your suffering, Edelgard. No one can understand all of Fódlan’s. The best chance to help the most people is to work together and listen to each other. Please, put down your axe. Let’s end this now.”

“I will not relent,” Edelgard murmurs. “You fools who are so caught up in the sacrifices at hand that you can’t see the future ramifications at stake… I will never entrust Fódlan to you.” She hangs her head for a moment. “It is time. There is nothing more to say. Your path lies across my grave. Claim your victory, if you can.”

She doubles over suddenly, wincing like she’s been stabbed in the chest. “Ugh… This pain is nothing… compared to what I have already suffered…”

Like he’s back in Conand Tower all those years ago, Veery watches in horror as something emerges from the blindingly bright Crest Stone within Aymr. It pulses, like blood is running through it, and flows out of the Crest Stone like thick, viscous liquid. Edelgard grunts, but does not scream. She takes the pain, the change, without an utterance of complaint and without a shred of hesitation. Dark tendrils consume her entirely, quickly encasing her body, then writhing up over her face, into her nose, slipping through the pressed line of her lips, and still she makes not a sound. The sinister substance, wholly surrounding her, expands into a massive hulking form.

“A terrible price indeed for such terrible power…” Claude mutters. His face is set like stone. No hint of hesitation mars his eyes.

A terrible price indeed… to be changed beyond recognition… Veery scowls up at Edelgard, at this black amalgam, and his breath catches in his throat. The odd, long limbs, the massive skirt-like feature… the proportions, the appearance… it’s like those golems in the Holy Tomb.

Claude’s words – Caub’s words – echo in Veery’s head. “A terrible price indeed…” Caub never mentions Edelgard turning into a black beast, but she isn’t, is she? Definitely, there’s some aspect of the change that’s the same, but she’s not a beast. She’s just like those golems. Too human-like. Not a rampaging creature in suffering, but a puppet designed for war.

Veery chirps urgently to Claude, Lysithea, and Dorothea, who also heard first-hand Caub’s warning.

“I see it,” Lysithea answers. “Caub warned us to review tactics to battle something like those golems beneath the monastery. We thought he only meant the titanus. I never would have imagined…”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Claude says. “What’s important is that, thanks to Caub, we’ve trained for a fight just like this. Don’t get complacent, she’s sure to have tricks up her sleeve, but we’re ready. Let’s finish this, once and for all.”

“So, this is the end of the road,” Felix scoffs. His eyes are fixed on Edelgard. He doesn’t speak to Edelgard so much as to himself, chanting in a low murmur. “After everything, this is where your path has taken you. Is this worth all you’ve done to the Kingdom? To Dimitri?” He raises his sword. “…I’ll take your head. For Ingrid. For His Highness. For Faerghus.”

Edelgard starts the battle in earnest by holding up her hand. Smoky purple magic appears, pulling a startled yelp from Veery. Dark magic? It really shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, but Edelgard never favors magic before, so her turning into a black beast and throwing dark magic suddenly is jarring.

And terrifying. The ball of magic she hurls at them is pitch dark with bloody red light deep within and as big as Veery. Everyone close enough leaps out of the way to avoid the massive thing.

“What a fascinating phenomenon,” Linhardt says, eyeing Edelgard when he’s back on his feet. “I haven’t the slightest idea how they managed to avoid turning her into just another Black Beast. Then again, I suppose she’s been groomed for this from the start.” Louder, directly to Edelgard, he says, “So, you’ve finally given in, huh? Whatever free will you still had… now is when you hand it over to the Koterija? When I fought for you, I thought you were resisting them. But it seems you’ve accepted the role they’ve so graciously laid out for you. Are you satisfied, dying as their pet?”

“You understand nothing!” It surprises Veery that she can speak at all like this, but she does. Her voice comes out twisted and malformed, a grating façade of her former timbre. It comes out like stones rolling down a mountain, with just as much impact. It rattles Veery’s bones as he dodges another magic attack. “I have opposed them at every turn! I am protecting Fódlan from them, and from the children of the goddess!”

“Then why are we the ones who had to put them down?” Lysithea asks. “Why is it that we killed them, while you started a war for them? You could have been with us, Edelgard. We wanted to change Fódlan together with you. But you chose to side with the Koterija, and now look at you. This is where your choices have led you. If you have any real agency left, use it wisely and die gracefully.”

“Lysithea…” Edelgard grinds. “You and I are so alike…”

Lysithea scoffs. “Our backgrounds are similar, yes, but don’t compare me to you. I slaughtered the people that did this to me. You slaughtered for them. Whatever our similarities, that’s where any kinship between us ends.”

“I used them!” Edelgard roars, striking out once more. “As much as I hate to admit it, I had no chance against the church alone. I needed their power to defeat another evil!”

“It’s not that simple, you know,” Hilda says, surprisingly kindly. “Fighting an insurmountable enemy isn’t just a matter of strength. House Goneril has held the Throat and kept the Almyrans out of Fódlan for a thousand years, yet all it took to stop the fighting and the death and the enslavement was talking to each other. Now they’re here, in Enbarr, helping us. I know there are some things you have to face with force - that’s why we’re facing each other now. But you had it all wrong from the start; war isn’t the path to your dream. …But don’t worry. We’ll finish the job for you.”

Edelgard roars. Another blast of magic blows Veery clean off his feet, and the following impact as Edelgard slams her hand down rattles his bones. He recovers quickly, notes Felix in front of Hilda holding Aegis over his head. He’s collapsed to his knee, but he and Hilda are both upright, even with Edelgard’s massive form attempting to crush them.

Twin slashes of ice and lightning arc, crossing each other at Edelgard’s gnarled elbow. It’s enough for her to recoil, letting Felix and Hilda escape, but Edelgard turns her hateful red eyes to Petra instead. Specifically, the blade in her hand.

“Petra…” Edelgard growls. “So, even you have chosen a false god. Even one that has nothing to do with your people.”

Petra stands tall, winter blade at the ready. “The patchwork god helped to liberate Brigid, so I don’t know how you can claim he has nothing to do with my people. More than that, I have not chosen a god. I have chosen a friend. If you had been brave enough to do the same, we might still be allies.”

“Liberating Brigid… I must admit, that was masterful work. There wasn’t a thing I could do at any point to stop you. If you had been by my side… But you’ve chosen your path. I will give you the response that deserves. I will crush you with everything I have!”

Petra sinks a little lower into her stance, blade at the ready. “And I will free Fódlan of you, just as I have freed Brigid.”

When Edelgard’s attack comes, Petra skillfully sidesteps it, cutting a deep gouge into Edelgard’s arm for the attempt. The magic thrown at her is diverted with Linhardt’s Wind spell just enough that Petra doesn’t even have to dodge. She leaps forward instead, and her blade meets Edelgard’s rough hide.

Black ice blossoms from the site of the blow, a wide gash across her hip, but, unhindered, Edelgard strikes back, grabbing for Petra.

“Look here, Edie!” Dorothea shouts. Her lightning intercepts Edelgard’s reaching hand. Before she recovers, Petra jumps back out of range.

Edelgard does look to Dorothea, and her eyes, blankly red and hateful as they are, widen at Dorothea’s stance. “How fitting,” Edelgard says. “Dancing magic suits you. You have always been an inspiration.”

“So have you,” Dorothea says. “You were always the strongest. Always unflappable. I admired you so much, because I thought you wanted to use that amazing strength to help people.”

“Dorothea…”

“Look at yourself, Edie,” Dorothea hisses. “This isn’t helping anyone. Even now, people all around Fódlan are killing each other. Just outside, your people, who you trapped inside the city, are dying! Please, Edie, I don’t want to kill you, too. Let this end. Protect someone before the only thing you leave this world with is death.”

Edelgard stares for a tense few seconds. Her head lowers. “…I cannot stop,” she finally says. “I am the only one who-”

“The only one?” Dorothea scoffs. “I really did think you were different, Edie. Even up until now, I hoped. I guess I was wrong. What is it that you even want, anymore? I can’t tell.”

Dorothea doesn’t wait for an answer before she fires Thoron, arcing right for Edelgard’s chest. Edelgard moves to dodge, but Hoarvug barrels into her, stalling her attempted movement long enough for Thoron to strike true. Edelgard cries out – it must hit a sensitive area. It’s a wailing, pained cry not that dissimilar to the demonic beasts. Even the fury and loathing are there, too.

“At least we tried,” Claude says. “There’s no reasoning with her. Everyone, all together now! Let’s end this quickly!”

Claude releases a gleaming arrow. It shoots through to Edelgard, lodging in her shoulder. Without a moment to spare, Linhardt and Lysithea’s rainbow Seraphim spells follow up, drawing another agonized cry from their prey. Edelgard tries to strike back with another dark spell, but Dorothea drops Ragnarok on her before she can release it.

In the wake of the charged magic, the rest of them close in. Petra, Hilda, and Veery open up Edelgard’s thick hide, Felix, Hoarvug, and Petra’s retainers fill in to cut ever deeper.

Edelgard swipes at them like they’re naught but gnats, but like gnats they flit out of the way in time for another round of magic and arrows to punish her for even trying.

They take their time, fighting patiently like a pride, working together to take down prey far larger than them. They pull and twist Edelgard in every direction until she has no choice but to break under the tension.

And it’s terrifying, but it’s pride. It’s Veery’s pride, doing what they do best, doing what they were prepared to do.

It takes a long time, and a lot of patience – a lot of nipping at her heels and running in circles to draw attention – but finally there’s an opening. Claude’s arrow bursts, knocking her hand away. Petra cuts at Edelgard’s legs, encasing them in ice. Veery and Hoarvug together leap onto her, their combined weight enough to topple her before she can break free of the ice around her feet.

Atop his prey, Veery does what comes naturally. He unleashes Abraxas. He claws, he bites. Anything exposed is a target, and anything that isn’t has it’s armor stripped away in a blaze.

Hoarvug does the same, digging in with his claws. Felix and Petra jump on as well, and the others carefully continue striking around the ones so close to Edelgard’s prone body.

And that’s it. Standard golem-type enemy strategy – to distract, immobilize, and pile on. Of course, it takes all of their skill combined to pull it off on Edelgard, but they do pull it off relatively unscathed in the end. They use the result of Caub’s warning and come out victorious for it.

The black carapace encompassing her evanesces. She shrinks back down to normal size. As the heady, dark magic dissipates, all that is left is Edelgard. She kneels before them, leaning on Aymr to manage even that much. Aymr itself glows weakly, then sputters out with the last of the fight left in Edelgard’s heart.

They surround her, ready for any sudden movement, but none comes. She only looks up at Byleth, right in front of her, at everyone else around her. Byleth sets herself. Steels herself for what she must do. “Edelgard…” Byleth says, barely a whisper. “What do you believe in?”

As she witnesses the Sword of the Creator rise, Edelgard says, “Power… and you. I wanted… to walk with you.”

Professor Byleth, gently, says, “So did I,” and brings her sword down on Edelgard’s neck.

In the silence that follows, Veery breathes. Deep, slow, when for a moment after that blade falls everything stops moving, Veery takes in that blooded air, holds that sharp, metallic scent on his tongue, and lets it go.

Hoarvug presses eagerly against Veery’s side, a welcome companion in the silence. He is exuberant and proud from a battle won, but Veery… his chest feels twisted. His friend is dead. The blind, idiot puppet is dead. The one who sits with him over tea and asks him for stories about his people will never kill another again. The one who opens her arms, her country, her home to him without a thought can no longer start or perpetuate another war.

Because of Edelgard, Veery will never again wrestle with Caspar. Because of Edelgard, the only humans Veery knows back home lose their son. And so, yes, Veery has his pride. When he looks upon this corpse, he swells with accomplishment. A peace he hasn’t ever felt before lands upon him like a thrown bedsheet.

He does not pity her. Whatever else she is, whatever her excuse, Edelgard starts a war. That is not something overlooked because she has a reason. That is the end of it. Full stop. There is no answer which makes that acceptable.

He does not pity her, but… he knows not if it’s the atmosphere influencing him or if he just hasn’t gone that far yet, but he cannot feel glad for this.

“It’s done, then,” Felix says, finally breaking the heady silence. His sharp eyes scan each of them in turn, but settle on, “Hilda, let’s go inform everyone.”

Hilda sags a little, relieved for an excuse to leave the ones with much more personal relationships with Edelgard than she has. “Right,” she says flatly. “We should find Seteth and your father first. They’ll need to know.”

Felix just nods then leads the way out the door.

Veery watches them, eyes drifting between their retreating backs and everyone still gathered around Edelgard’s body. He decides, after a moment of hesitation, to leave. He doesn’t need to be here. He’d rather not be here. Edelgard is dead; that’s enough for him. He can’t stand here and pretend to mourn her, even if it’s true that his heart isn’t full only of hate for her.

But as he turns away, his fur is caught. He halts, feeling the tug. It’s weak enough that he can still leave without a fight, but he glances back at Byleth, at her hand on his back, and turns back to her instead.

She wraps her arms around him, holding him tight.

Why? Why him? Of everyone she can go to for comfort, Veery would first guess Claude, or maybe Dorothea. Not him. So…

There’s only one thing he can provide for her that no one else can, but it’s something he never thought humans find the same comfort in as he does. Oh well. If she comes to him over the others, maybe there is something to it. Either way, she’s asking him for help, so he’ll do what he can for her.

He begins to purr.

Rumbling, rolling, it carries out like waves. And maybe there’s a little magic there, too, something Veery only distantly realizes, using his divine power once more without truly meaning to. Byleth shakes just a little, silent as the grave even as his fur dampens where her face presses into him.

For a moment, Claude comes to his side, leans against him, soaking in the purr and the presence, and then he straightens up again and moves away. Dorothea and Petra both spend some time at his side, crouching low with their heads on his shoulder. It’s long enough that he eventually lowers to the floor, laying down to allow them to hold his fur. At that point, even Lysithea comes close to pet him, though her eyes are far away.

Linhardt collapses on the ground next to him, laying back on Veery’s flank. “We’re done, right?” he asks no one, already looking half-asleep. “Let the others handle the clean-up.”

Claude lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah… yeah, we’re done for now. Everyone… you did good. I’m so proud of you all, and I can’t thank you enough for seeing this through with me. Go rest. You’ve earned it.”

Veery catches Hoarvug’s eye, gestures with his nose towards Edelgard. Petra does the same with her retainers. The three of them go to handle the emperor’s corpse – Acis and Vanora, at least, will know what to do with it. In the meantime, Veery slowly rises back to his feet, nosing those still attached to him up as well. More than a few hands stay in his fur as he guides them gently away from the throne room.

Petra leads them to a lavish sitting room close by, and it’s there that they rest. Veery settles down again, Linhardt is asleep over him practically before he’s even laying down. Dorothea curls close to his belly, draping over his shoulder. Petra sits at his back, upright and ready but leaning against him. Lysithea continues petting his neck. And Byleth… she takes Veery’s head onto her lap, doubles over onto him, and holds tight.

Through all this, Veery purrs.

After a while of just being, enshrouded in pride and family, Claude enters the room, too. He finds a place behind Dorothea, leans against Veery as well, and sighs.

“This wasn’t the conclusion I had hoped for,” Claude admits in a whisper.

“It was the only one she left us,” Dorothea answers.

Claude shuts his eyes. “Even though… I… Never mind. The important thing is that we won.”

“Claude…” Petra starts. “Edelgard and Dimitri are both dead now. You are all that is left to lead Fódlan.”

Claude is quiet for a long time. “That’s not true,” he says eventually. “There’s Seteth. There’s- there’s Teach.”

“Edelgard was wrong about so many things,” Petra says tenderly, “but she was right about you. You have other obligations… you have your own people. But you are still all that Fódlan has left. What will you do?”

“I…” Claude sighs again. “Honestly, my plan was to help set everything up, then leave Fódlan to Teach. But I… I can’t do that.”

“Claude.” Byleth raises her head, finally, to stare at him. “I will do it.”

“I know you would,” Claude says, eyes falling to the floor. “That’s why I can’t. Because you don’t want to. You’d do it for us, for me, but you’d hate it. I can’t do that to you. I don’t want you to suffer for my power.” He shakes his head. “I was being too selfish, taking advantage of your care for us like that. Petra’s right. I have a responsibility to Almyra, but… I also have a responsibility here. I just… I don’t know how I’m going to balance that. I don’t have a plan.”

“That’s okay,” Petra says.

Claude’s head rises sharply. “It is?”

“Of course. We’ll help you.”

“I… you will? Just like that?”

Lysithea rolls her eyes. “What do you take us for, Claude? We’ve stuck with you this long.”

Claude laughs, exasperated and disbelieving. “I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Truly.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Petra says. “And if ever you need Brigid’s aid, you have it. In the meantime, rest. You deserve it as much as the rest of us. Everything else will wait.”

“Right,” Claude sighs. “Tomorrow’s another day, but for now… it’s over.”

[finnlongman]

While trying to share links to my Old Irish Memrise courses with somebody today, I discovered that they're no longer accessible via the main Memrise website at all. This means that any of my previous posts linking to them (or any by others) have dead links and you can't find them at all.

However, when I contacted their Customer Support team for help, I received an automated email directing me to a separate "community courses" website, where they appear to be intact. So, here are the working links:

Old Irish Glossary: Quin's Old Irish Workbook, Lessons 1-20

Old Irish Glossary: Quin's Old Irish Workbook, Lessons 20-40

Vocab from Immram Curaig ua Corra

Vocab from Longes mac nUislenn

Vocab from How Cú Chulainn Got His Name

I did not make the last two of these, but I made the first three when I was an undergrad. They're not the best-constructed courses in the world; they lack grammatical information about most words, for starters. But I still credit them with being the reason I passed my undergrad Old Irish exams, and maybe they'll be useful to others working their way through Quin or trying to learn some basic vocab.

I don't know how long Memrise intends to maintain this separate Community Courses website. I hope forever; it'll be a bummer if it goes completely. I don't think they can be accessed via the Memrise app though (unless you're already enrolled in them; possibly not even then?), so it's likely to be a purely desktop experience.

[365lasochraide]

favorite names for boys and girls? can be unisex too :3

Dear Lord, I have far too manty. That is what being a nerd does to yuo XD

I am quiet find of names isnoired by nature, mythogy and history. Some of me favourites are:

BOYS

Bran (a reference to both an immram and Welsh myth :)

Lir

Lugh

Ailill

Arawn

GIRLS

Airmed (Miachs sister :D)

Eithne

Vivian

Derdriu

Samhthann

UNISEX

Fir (it is a tree but also a character in Irish mytholfoy :D)

Nóinín (it is not tenically a name but it means daisy as gaeilge and it sounds adorablr to me xD)

[caraecethrae]

maybe workshop the "law of love" and "vouchsafed through grace" to something like "judgment of truth" and "granted safe passage" (?)

ugh I should maybe redo my pinned with Nemed and switch Hogmanay to Wren's Day

[astronicht]

Since finishing Fellowship I keep seeing references to LOTR as a sweeping heroic tale etc and this is now confusing to me, both in terms of story structure (hero tale or Romance; immram or exile tale) and the level of fantasy. The thing I’m learning about the art of writing swords and sorcery is that — to me, personally! And I get that this sounds bonkers! — Tolkien mostly feels like low fantasy. He just made the magic that was already there real. To the point where it takes a long time to even notice when people are doing magic, and whether it’s magic is sometimes debatable. Sam even complains about this briefly in Lorien (that the Elf magic isn’t dramatic) which is funny bc he’s utterly surrounded by small magics the whole time. Hell, in a story that stresses the power of words, quite literally to protect, I think that in of the fellowship plus Bilbo, only Aragorn, Bilbo, Legolas [edited to add Legolas sorry for forgetting u my guy], and Sam have actually composed their own poems and songs. And most of Aragorn and all of Legolas’s was Boromir’s funeral song.

I’m mostly asleep and have effectively only read Fellowship so far but idk! My point is that it doesn’t feel like it’s so influenced by the structure of later high medieval and onwards hero stories all that much. WAS Tolkien influenced by French Romances and Shakespeare and modern novels like oh absolutely! But lotr isn’t the Green Night or even Melusine, and it is only Macbeth for special occasions.

I know it’s considered a model hero’s journey or whatever but in-universe (and again, maybe just to me!) it’s not? it’s an exile story. Like The Wanderer or Erik the Red or Deor. Frodo et al say it at the beginning a bunch of times: the hobbits have exiled themselves. Gollum we’re told was exiled by his matriarch long ago and has lived as an exile ever since. Where I am at the beginning of Two Towers, Aragorn just saw the mountains that hide Gondor to the south and sang to them because he cannot yet go home. And there are a lot of those exile stories to draw on, in the time period and languages from which Tolkien was drinking deepest. Exile was a legal state and also a favourite story-frame.

[maddyaddy]

Palatine Amity, Immram Commandery, Order of Our Martyred Lady